


Idols on Ash

by darkmagicalgirl



Series: Idols / Ruins [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Codependency, M/M, Pining, Riding, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, mild choking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8863144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkmagicalgirl/pseuds/darkmagicalgirl
Summary: Falling should be a comfort, but when John looks at Harold, he’s terrified.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paenteom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paenteom/gifts).



> I've had terrible writer's block and only long, intimidating WIPS, so I opened holiday short fic requests for some friends and this is the first one~~ Thank you so much for helping me finally finish a fic for the first time in over half a year, Charlie, you are, as always, an inspiration and a wonderful target. Have a happy Channukah and Christmas and New Years!

Falling should be a comfort, but when John looks at Harold, he’s terrified.

It doesn’t matter what they’re doing. The curve of Harold’s fingers is equally as formidable whether they’re tapping out code or wrapped around a cup of tea or pressed gentle but unyielding to the pulse at John’s throat. The flutter of his lashes stops up John’s breath whether he intends to or not and the set of his shoulders is almost worse when they’re hidden beneath the layers of his suits and jackets than when they’re bare but for the heavy sense of duty he always wears as a cloak.

John has never loved someone so very much. John has never been so very afraid.

It’s like a physical pressure in his chest, a vine growing around his heart from where Harold looked at him that first day and dared to plant a seed of hope. It claws up his insides, scrapes him all the more raw for how softly Harold handles him, and it hurts worse than anything he’s felt before but now that he has it, giving it up would be incomprehensible. The reflection of computer screens against Harold’s glasses has become his sun, the soft huff of almost-laughter in his ear after one of his almost-jokes his air. He could no more rip himself away from Harold than he could turn back time, and the desire to do so is wholly lacking. He’s never suffered so much and regretted it so little.

He wonders if Harold knows, if it’s even possible for him to understand the crushing pressure of _love-want-fear-protect-keep-need-devotion_ that burns in his veins so much sweeter than alcohol, so much harsher than pain. When he looks at John, does he see himself in the strings holding John's broken pieces together? Can he hear the reverence in John's voice when he finds an excuse to say his name? 

John's feelings are unquestionable, implacable, but Harold's are nearly as elusive as the man himself, as impossible to pin down as if they are made of mist. Oh, John knows Harold loves him, because Harold loves all of humanity, loves them in an all-encompassing fire that burns from the depths of his soul to flicker behind his eyes, inviting the dousing weight of rain that John has promised himself he won't let touch Harold as long as he still has breath in his body. But beyond that, that impersonal love that John qualifies for simply because Harold still, somehow, sees him as human, his feelings are a mystery.

Sometimes, he makes it so easy for John to pretend. When John comes back hurt from a mission, bruises rising on his knuckles and blood stains unfurling like rose petals through the white of his shirt, and Harold looks at him with those eyes, wet and aching as if something terrible has happened, and he whispers, "Oh, Mr. Reese," turning the designation into a name with the shape his lips around it, it's so easy to imagine.

Harold's hands are steady as he tends to John's cuts, cleaning and dressing the wounds with familiarity borne of experience, but there's a tremble in his throat as he swallows back some emotion, and none of John's self-control can stop him from leaning in to press his mouth against the line of Harold's neck. He tastes of expensive after shave and bound books, he tastes of fire and hope and sorrow and John wants to breathe him in until all the air in his lungs is filled with Harold.

"Your injuries—” Harold says, a protest undercut by the way he tips his head to the side to grant John more of the access he craves, by how his hands slide down to settle at John's hips.

"Are fine," John says, his voice sliding over the words with a sultriness that can't possibly disguise the unbridled need thrumming through him. "I've walked off far worse than this."

"That's hardly a comfort," Harold says as he leans back in his desk chair to make room for John to climb over his lap, and when his teeth catch on his lower lip John doesn't even try to resist the urge to kiss him. Harold's lips and tongue are weighted down with unsaid words and the promise of orders and rules and an indisputable purpose, and John wants to lick all that away to get to the taste of pure Harold underneath.

He could spend days doing just this, John thinks, just trying to wrap his mind around the warmth of Harold's hands bracing him unnecessarily, the shudder of reaction throwing off the pattern of his breaths when John scrapes his teeth against the edge of his jaw. He'd go happily without food or water for a few more moments of getting to have Harold so close, to see pink blooming beneath his skin and know he was the one to put it there.

His body always betrays him in the end. Harold shift beneath him and there's a brush of contact against him that sends a jolt of pure heat racing through him, and it's only then that John realizes how hard he's gotten just from having Harold beneath him.

"Oh, Mr. Reese," Harold says again, this time inflected with that strange sense of awe that always curls into his voice when they're like this, as if John has done something wondrous and beautiful, as if anything about John's reactions to Harold could be at all shocking anymore. 

"I want you," John says, voice clumsy with the rough edge of emotion, entirely unsuited for the softness that should be in this moment. 

"You have me," Harold says, as if it were ever that easy, as if he has any idea of the the burning hole of want and need that's made up John's soul for so long that it feels like a lifetime, even if it's only been a few years since they met that day by the East River.

"I want to make you feel good," John says, because it's more to the point, because it keeps his heart from stuttering out of rhythm, because it makes Harold's breath catch. He ducks his head and licks his lips, and Harold's sigh heavy with heat is enough permission to send John sliding to the ground even as Harold is parting his legs, the shock of his knees hitting the floor lost to the ache of desire that has him having to will his fingers out of shakin g as he undoes Harold's slacks.

Harold takes longer to get fully hard and today is no exception, but John almost prefers it. This way he can take him completely into his mouth from the very beginning, can feel him flushing harder as John's lips move over him. He can feel the effects of each caress of his tongue and brush of his fingers pulling Harold closer to full arousal, can feel the pressure growing in his throat in time with the heat haze of desire lowering over his thoughts. 

"Be careful," Harold says, hand coming down to cup John's cheek with a delicacy that would be better suited for handling something precious. "Mr. Reese, you—”

John swallows Harold down as far as he can, until his throat is spasming in reflexive protest and the lack of oxygen starts to make everything fuzzy, lighting Harold with a glow that usually is far more imaginary than literal, but does nothing to disguise the way his voice breaks into a whine as his hips twitch forward before he can stop them, a fracture in his self-control.

"Mr. Reese," he says again, his voice wavering somewhere between pleading and raw. "Mr. Reese." His hand shifts to curl around the back of John's neck, easing him off. John would protest if the weight of Harold's fingers didn't feel so solidly comforting, bracing him in place long enough for John to take in a ragged breath before drawing him back down.

John could lose himself in this, in the space of time between gasps of air and the heat of Harold in his mouth, sliding down his throat. Harold never lets him get to the point where he feels any of the true signs of air deprivation, but it's worth it all the same, to let his mind go soft and blank except for the sensations of Harold directing him, of Harold in him, of Harold taking himself apart through the use of John's mouth. The shaking heat of that thought spurs him on as it sends all his blooding singing downwards, but he doesn't even consider shifting to offer himself some relief. All he can focus on is the movement of his tongue and the slight shake of Harold's thighs beneath where he's set his hands.

He couldn't say how much time has passed when it finally gets unbearable, when the slide over his tongue isn't enough anymore. He pulls back, Harold's grip loosening instantly. His eyes had fallen closed but they open now, blinking down at John with his mouth parted as though his thoughts are just as glazed over as John's.

His legs tremble slightly when he stands, but he brushes off Harold's hand offering to help stabilize him in favor of reaching over for the drawer where they've began keeping lube when this started to happen more and more often. Harold helps him get his pants open and out of the way, hands falling to steady him at his hip and the back of his thigh as John kneels over him, knees spread wide to balance him against the desk chair.

He works himself open in brisk, economical movements. If he had more patience, he might let Harold do it, but the idea of Harold's fingers gently easing him into relaxation is more than John thinks he can bear with the fire in his blood already roaring in his ears. Instead he keeps his motions choppy, not letting himself focus on the strain or the pleasure both. 

As soon as he thinks he's ready, when the pressure is down to only a mild hum, he pulls his fingers out and tightens a fist into the fabric of Harold's shirt as he lines himself up. He takes a breath and lets it out, eyes tracking from the flutter of Harold's rapid breathing to the open-mouthed bow of his mouth to finally his wide-eyed stare as he begins to bear down.

The stretch always feels like too much at first. It doesn't matter how much John thinks he's prepared himself, having the heat of Harold inside of him in time with the way his eyes go huge and shocked into something like awed disbelief will always be too much for John to take, but he can't bring himself to look away. He thinks he could see eternity in Harold's eyes if he looked hard enough, millions of worlds full of impossible things, but now those eyes are fixed on him, only on him, and the focus is equally scorching and addictive.

"You feel... Oh, _please_ ," Harold says, voice outright shivering in pleasure and John doesn't need to be told to know exactly what pace he should be setting to tease out that feeling until Harold is fighting off the reflexive need to close his eyes in surrender to it. He goes slow, slow enough that his thighs cry protest to the burn of it, but that's easy enough to shunt aside for the way tension is gathering between Harold's brows in a look of almost pain as the sensation builds between them, heat and strain and desire all shot through into something that hangs right on the border of being too much without ever quite crossing the edge.

Harold's gaze starts to go distant and fuzzy, and John tries not to be selfish but he can't help it about this one thing, so he leans in until their foreheads are pressed together and Harold's eyes have snapped back to his own, drinking him in as if the sight of him is something to be savored and cherished. 

He raises a hand to John's neck, the lightest of touches a question of permission, and John's voice cracks raw and needy as he grates out, " _Harold_ ," in a tone of pure pleading. Instantly Harold's hand tightens its hold, not enough to restrict John's breathing but enough that it's inescapably present, the pulse in his thumb pressed to the one in John's neck until he can imagine it's Harold's heart beating for the both of them, that he's pushing his blood, his dreams, his impossible _hope_ into John with each shaking breath.

John realizes he's making gasping, broken noises with each thrust but can't bring himself to stop, can't do anything but keep going despite the fact that his careful rhythm is shattering into a jerky, instinctive thing, driven by the tension sparking all through him between Harold inside him and Harold around him, Harold's eyes and Harold's mouth open on a groan as he tenses up and shudders of pleasure chase their way across his face as he comes.

There's a moment afterward where Harold goes limp with satisfaction, eyes finally falling closed as he takes in a deep, ragged breath of warm relief, and John wishes he were less distracted by his own body so he could memorize every twitch of sensation across Harold's brow, but Harold's orgasm had made his grip on John's throat go tight for a moment and now he's close, so close, and he lets out a whine of frustration before he can stop himself.

Harold's eyes come open instantly, refocusing on John like he's the sun coming up over the horizon, and he closes his hand around John's neck with more purpose, reaching down with his other hand to jerk up over him with somewhat less finesse than he might normally show, with the aftershocks still shuddering through him, but John likes the roughness of it.

Then Harold opens his mouth and says, " _John_ ," in a reverent tone that brings a hush to his voice, and John shivers all over as he comes, his mind going blank and soft with pleasure as sensation pours through him.

In the aftermath, Harold is always the strong one. He's the one who cleans them up, puts their clothes in some spirit of back to rights, who leads John to the couch and organizes their bodies onto it together so that John can hear the steady thud of Harold's heart beneath his ear and Harold can wind his fingers through John's hair.

They stay like that in minutes turned long and languid with the strange softness that shouldn't fit either one of them. John's eyes fall closed as he matches his breathing to Harold's, as he feels himself slowly relax. He can almost asleep, like this, might actually get there in a few more moments of stillness.

"John," Harold says again, so quietly that if John weren't pressed up against him he might not have heard it. His voice is full of emotion that John struggles to name, his mouth imbuing the word with impossible tenderness.

Sometimes, it's so easy for John to pretend.

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably get a part II at some point because SOME people are boring and want their favorite characters to be happy or whatever.


End file.
